


Angels Usually Aren't Human, This Just Happens To Be An Exception

by EnvelopedByOblivion



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teachers, Aziraphale does not take things too slow, Aziraphale is an angel disguised as a human, Competitive Crowley, Crowley is still a demon, Human!Aziraphale, M/M, Slow Burn, Sort Of, Teacher!Crowley, forward Aziraphale, librarian!Aziraphale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-05-01 16:35:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19181671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnvelopedByOblivion/pseuds/EnvelopedByOblivion
Summary: Crowley, acting as a teacher at a prestigious university, is informed by Hastur that there is an angel hiding on campus. The Angel, Aziraphale, is disguised as a librarian. Crowley is sent to eliminate the threat, only to find a hapless man with white-blond hair and a very human appearance.Taken aback by the very human angel, Crowley finds himself becoming fascinated with the man, who seems to be completely unaware of his true identity. When Gabriel arrives to check up on Aziraphale, and to later return him to Heaven, Crowley is faced with a dilemma: should he interfere with Gabriel to keep Aziraphale with him on Earth? Or should he allow this new interest in his life to be taken back, never to see Crowley again?





	1. The Beginning (As Far As Aziraphale is Concerned)

      Aziraphale was alone on the university street, walking one of the more obscure pathways between the ancient towers the school was known for. A chill seeped through his heavy trench coat, the oatmeal colored material shifting across his legs as he sped up his pace. The air was harsh, and the clouds promised to shiver out the first flakes of snow before the night was through. Street lamps hung from the drab stone walls of the library, illuminating the otherwise pitch-dark surroundings.

      His breath misted in front of him, his skin begging for warmth as he removed his hands from his pockets, turning an old, brass key in his palms. He turned the lock swiftly, practically jumping through the doorway when he got it open.

      It was far too cold for any reasonable person to be out and about. Aziraphale had a mission to accomplish: retrieve his copy of Emily Dickinson's Poems. He had intended to bring it home, but his mind failed him. He swore he'd forget his own head, had it not been attached to his shoulders.

      He turned on an old desk lamp, illuminating the central room in a warm glow. There was no need to turn on all the lights: he knew the layout of this place like the back of his hand. Aged covers marked the walls of the large space, two stories high and shining with ornate designs and dyes from foreign lands. The air was still, silence broken only by the echo of Aziraphale's footsteps.

      He approached the left wing of the building, the tall ceilings allowing the second floor to share the same air as the first. The room was divided by bookshelves snaking across the lower floor, creating a maze of classic literature and foreign texts. The second floor looked over the entire space, curved in a halo that followed the walls. A great chandelier hung in the middle of the space, though it remained dark as he opened the door to his private office.

      The book laid right where he had left it, perched upon his desk next to an unwashed tea glass. Aziraphale huffed, picking up the worn novel.

      He froze. There was a thump behind him, followed by a sharp intake of breath. Aziraphale turned slowly, shuffling quietly to look out from behind the heavy wooden door, hiding himself behind it. He narrowed his eyes, looking into the near-dark room. He couldn't see anything.

      "Hello?" He called, voice wavering. He gazed suspiciously around the space, looking for any sign of movement. "Is anyone there?"

      Another thump answered him, followed by a quiet, hissed curse. Aziraphale startled, jumping slightly from where he stood. He wasn’t quite as alone as he had hoped.

      "Are you alright?" Aziraphale questioned, eyes following to the source of the noise. His hands shook where they rested on the door. "I know you're in here, whoever you are."

      "I know I shouldn't be in here," a voice answered in an almost sullen tone. Aziraphale thought for a moment, mind racing. The fact that the voice answered instead of immediately murdering him was a good sign, but the fact that someone was in here at all was troubling.

      "That does not answer my question," he decided on saying, putting on a voice more confident than his own. "Obviously you should not be in here. But I'm glad we are on the same page, regardless."

      The voice chuckled in the darkness. "I'm all right, but these books might not be," the voice paused, "maybe you should turn on a light, there's no use talking in darkness."

      Aziraphale  was taken aback. While the order was reasonable enough, an unwelcome guest had no business ordering him around. A retort threatened to leave his tongue, but politeness won out. He sighed, walking to turn on the chandelier.

      He flinched at the sudden light that illuminated the room, eyes adjusting as he looked upon the intruder standing on the second-floor overhang, leaning against the black wire fencing. He wore a black trench coat (which looked more like a suit jacket than a winter jacket) that hung loose off his shoulders and dark sunglasses, he looked strikingly different than what he had expected.

      Instead of a bored student looking for rule-breaking trouble, a red-haired man well past schooling age stared back at him, a teacher's badge clipped to the lapel of his jacket. He looked down at Aziraphale, flashing an awkward but polite smile.

      "I'm truly sorry about this, but I've knocked some books over," the man said after a moment, knocking Aziraphale out of his haze. He realized that he had been staring at the man blankly since turning the light on. In his defense, there was a lot to take in.

      "Oh, that's perfectly all right," Aziraphale said quickly, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. "You must know, however, that even teachers are not allowed here after hours."

      The man paused, considering his reply. "Yes," he said simply.

      Aziraphale looked at the man expectantly.

      "I was aware, but..." the man paused. "I needed to pick up a book for class tomorrow, it genuinely couldn't wait."

      Aziraphale sighed, shaking his head again. That sounded like an excuse, but it was reasonable enough. "It's alright, but don't do it again."

      The other man continued. "And... it was cold out, and the library was surprisingly warm," he said. "You must have heard of the teacher's quarter's terrible heating."

      He had heard about that, he admitted to himself. But he was a rule following man, and teachers of all people should respect them. "I'll let it slide. But just this once!"

      The man looked relieved, bending over to retrieve the fallen books. Aziraphale watched him move with easy confidence, placing the books back in their rightful place: The Roman Classics section.

      A history teacher, then. Or a classic literature, but he dismissed that thought; Aziraphale prided himself on knowing every English teacher on campus, and this man was not one of them. He would’ve remembered a face like that.

      The more he thought about it, he realized he had never seen the man before. Aziraphale, while introverted, had interacted with most people on campus. Especially those that frequented his library. The man returned the books with such precision, such confidence, Aziraphale thought that the man must have been here before.

      “What is your name?” Aziraphale asked.

      “Crowley,” he answered, returning the final book to the shelf. “Well, Anthony Crowley, but no one calls be by my first name.”

      “Professor Crowley,” Aziraphale tried out the name, and decided he liked it. It rolled off the tongue nicely. “History teacher, I assume?”

      “Ancient history,” Crowley started down the stairs. Aziraphale realized he was staring again, but the longer he looked, the more familiar the man felt. The air about him felt like someone he had known, but he couldn’t place specifics.

      Behind his sunglasses, Crowley had a peculiar look in his eyes. Aziraphale couldn’t see it, but Crowley looked at him too.


	2. Before The Beginning

            “An _Angel_?” Crowley exclaimed. “Here? Of all places for an angel to be?”

            “We have received reliable information that an angel is hiding right under your nose,” Hastur continued. “In the school’s library.”

            “Listen, I’ve been on this campus for weeks,” Crowley said. “I think I would’ve noticed a bloody _angel_.”

            They stood on the roof of Crowley’s lecture, overlooking the quiet university streets in the moonlight. Nobody sane would be out in this weather. A heavy wind caught Crowley’s jacket, tousling his hair into a state of dignified disarray. He scowled, meeting Hastur’s gaze again.

            “What else might you have missed, then?” Hastur smirked. Part of Crowley wanted to punch that look from his face, but he would have to save that temptation for another day.

            “I’ve been busy,” Crowley said. “Ruin the next generation before they even get the chance to do good. That’s been my mission, not angel hunting.” He said those last words with disgust. Crowley could put up with a lot, but working overtime was not one of those things.

            “Unless you want to work with another demon on your own territory, you’ll take care of it,” Hastur said, bite of a threat behind his words. “Otherwise, I hope you don’t mind burning books.”

            Hastur laughed a hoarse laugh, echoing behind him as he disappeared with a menacing grin. Crowley scolded at the place where Hastur once stood.

            “Oh, _I_ don’t mind burning books,” he mocked, turning his nose up into the air. “I hope _you_ don’t mind burning books. Since when did demons care about preserving knowledge? I’m not _that_ far gone.”

            Crowley muttered mocking curses under his breath as he walked towards the fire escape at the back of the building. Sure, he could teleport. But where’s the fun in that, when there’s stomping and wallowing to be done?

            “Angel hunting,” he sighed, opening the door and waltzing into the empty lecture hall. An uncleaned chalkboard sat along the far corners of the room, rows of chairs (made unnecessarily uncomfortable since Crowley’s arrival) facing it. He tossed his jacket from his shoulders onto his stark, dark wooden desk. “Satan help me.”

            He threw himself into the empty chair, leather soft through his thin clothing. He let his head rest heavily on the back of the armchair, staring up at the ceiling marked with wooden support beams. His yellow eyes shone in the faint light, glowing a faint golden hue.

            He stayed like that for a moment more, letting his tired bones seep in the warmth and comfort of his position. He had planned on calling it a night after the impromptu meeting with Hastur. Damn, he needed sleep.

            With a sigh, he drew himself up from his chair. The books wouldn’t burn themselves, after all.

 

\-----

 

            The library was dark at this time in the night. And empty, of course. The glass was frosted against the cold air, shining dimly where the light from the streetlamps met it. Crowley smelled the air, finding only the scent of snow and old wood.

            No immediate signs of anything holy. Angels, of course, smelled different from demons. While Crowley hadn’t encountered an angel for some time, the smell wasn’t something he’d forget.

            Crowley brushed off his doubts, teleporting just inside the door. The library was old; wooden floors worn by the shoes of countless students, paint cracking above the highest bookshelves where no paintbrush had seen in decades, books worn by thumbs that had flicked through pages countless times. The place felt strange, but not in a way denoted by a supernatural presence. It felt used, but cared for.

            He walked the library checking for signs. He had never been on this side of the campus before, closer to the student dorms than the teacher’s housing. He found himself browsing covers as he walked, glancing some he recognized. Some written by authors he had known. You have never talked politics till you had talked them with Plato.

            The longer he browsed, the more he felt like a heavy blanket was draped over his shoulders. He felt warm as he traced spines of books as he walked the second floor, looking more intently at the words that graced their covers. The air was comforting, which was unusual for Crowley. The closest he had felt recently was his leather chair in his office, which was comfortable in a purely human sense. But this, this was almost spiritual.

            He had mostly avoided libraries (after the incident at Alexandria, at least. That one wasn’t his fault, but the opportunity presented itself for him to take credit. He had loved countless volumes, many of which had been lost to time).

            The darkness lifted, the first faint hints of morning gracing the horizon. The blue glow from the windows surprised Crowley, breaking him from the trance he had found himself in. In an instant, he teleported back to his lecture. The air felt cold on his neck, the thick, blanketing comfort lifting from his bones.

            He hadn’t felt so rested in years.

            The next night, he looked for evidence again, scouring the shelves for any hint of angelic activity. Then the next night, he checked the back rooms. He checked the basement, where damaged books laid open on fraying spines to be mended.

            In the weeks to come, he checked the librarian’s office, where first editions were hidden away on shelves overflowing with books. Teapots marked with floral designs lay tucked away in cupboards, looking well used. Throw rugs lay strewn across the floor, so comfortable looking that Crowley pressed his hand to the plush material.

            As December approached, Crowley knew some shelves like the back of his hand. The quiet of the library became a fixture of his nights, a break from the stresses of tempting students that bended far too easily to his will. His classes were going well enough; he knew his material so well some students swore he had seen it firsthand.

            But he never returned to the library during open hours. If he found the angel, the library would be lost. Whatever comfort he had blessed its walls with would be burned away with him, and hellfire would engulf the scene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Accidentally posted only half the chapter, it's fixed now!


	3. The Beginning (Again)

            One night in early December, Crowley browsed the shelves as he had many times before. He was upstairs in the left wing, lounging in one of the ancient chairs reserved for the students, sipping on a glass of wine. Absentmindedly, he thumped through a collection of Roman poems from the shelf on his left; the manner of speech bringing back memories he hadn’t thought of since they were formed.

            This, being one of the rare occasions he actually read one of the books, was out of the ordinary. He wasn’t much in the mood for searching for clues, not after the day he’s had. The endless torments of youth were wearing on him, students seeming perfectly content turning their wrath away from each other and onto him. He had done his job _too well_.

            He was infinitely happy for the wine.

            Crowley was in the middle of reading a lyric from Seneca when he heard the lock on the front door click open. The heavy wooden door creaked on its hinges, shuddering off bits of frost with the effort. A heavy exhale echoed through the library, the door shutting behind the man who entered the space.

            Crowley froze, eyes staring unblinking into the darkness. He could see perfectly, demon vision and all, but he prayed whoever’s footsteps echoed through the open space didn’t have that luxury. A lamp turned on in the main room, light barely reaching the hall into the left wing.

            That answered that question, then. The footsteps approached him, the man walking through the maze of bookshelves and into the librarian’s office without so much as turning on the light.

            Crowley finally came back to his senses, slowly standing from his position and reaching to return the book to its shelf. That man was the librarian, the angel himself. He had seen what some angels did to demons, and he didn’t want to experience it firsthand. He was inside the angel’s territory: while there’s no good place to be found by an angel, their own lair was probably very low on the list.

            His hands shook lightly as he returned the book, only to knock practically five volumes of literature onto the floor with a crash. His skin turned cold at the sound, hairs standing up on his neck as the sound reverberated. The angel poked his head out of the doorway.

            "Hello?" He called, voice wavering. "Is anyone there?"

            Now that was something Crowley had not expected. An _angel_? Cowering in the doorway out of _fear_? He had never heard of an angel being anything other than righteous and infallible. In his stupor, he allowed the last novel to fall from his grasp, falling into the small pile across the wooden floor. He hissed out a curse, wincing at the noise.

            "Are you alright?" the angel questioned from his place behind the door. “I know you're in here, whoever you are."

            The angel had changed tactics, then. Lure him out with kindness, eh? He could probably smell the demonic energy clinging all around the library. But, sensing a way out without a bloody battle and the destruction of all the books (and the university beyond), he played along.

            "I know I shouldn't be in here," he answered in his best guilty tone. The angel’s face changed from fear to an odd sort of relief (with a sprinkling of fear on top).

            "That does not answer my question," he sounded more confident now, though his face reviled that he was putting it on. "Obviously you should not be in here. But I'm glad we are on the same page, regardless." 

            Despite himself, he chuckled. Do angels have humor now? "I'm all right, but these books might not be," the he paused, debating his options, "maybe you should turn on a light, there's no use talking in darkness."

            Giving the angel a good look at him was probably not the best idea, but the awkwardness of the situation was wearing on him. With a sigh, the angel walked to turn on the light.

            He flinched at the sudden light that illuminated the room, eyes adjusting as he looked upon the angel in the proper lighting. There was no heavenly glow, no choir; he looked strikingly different than what he had expected. 

            Instead of a well-muscled guardian of heaven’s glory, a blond-haired man without hint of angelic strength stared back at him, dressed in all white with a book in his hand. He looked up at Crowley with wide eyes and an open mouth.

            "I'm truly sorry about this, but I've knocked some books over," Crowley said after a moment, apparently knocking the angel out of his haze.

            "Oh, that's perfectly all right," the angel said quickly, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. "You must know, however, that even teachers are not allowed here after hours." 

            He paused, considering his reply. No smiting had occurred yet. No weapon had manifested itself in the angel’s grasp. No lights shone down from the heavens. Angel’s didn’t usually have pleasant conversations before wiping demons off the face of the earth. "Yes," he said simply.

            The angel looked at the man expectantly. 

            "I was aware, but..." Crowley paused. "I needed to pick up a book for class tomorrow, it genuinely couldn't wait."

            Crowley seemed unable to dream up a better excuse, so that would have to do. The angel sighed, shaking his head again. "It's alright, but don't do it again."

            Crowley raised his eyebrows and continued. "And... it was cold out, and the library was surprisingly warm," he said. "You must have heard of the teacher's quarter's terrible heating."

            There was literally no way this was working. The angel seemed to deflate, sighing, "I'll let it slide. But just this once!"

            Crowley was relieved, but that was entirely dwarfed by earth-shattering confusion. This man couldn’t be an angel. Needing a break from the conversation, he bent over to retrieve the fallen books. He returned them absentmindedly to their correct positions, having learned the correct order at some point without even meaning to.

            This man hadn’t a sliver of angelic energy anywhere in him. He smelled entirely mortal, from his wrinkled dress pants to the crooked bowtie. Angels didn’t wear bowties, much less crooked ones. Was that _tartan_? Angels had bad taste, but he didn’t realize the situation was that dire. When the all but one book had finally filled the shelf, he turned back towards the angel- er, man.

            “What is your name?” he asked. There was no point lying, whether he survived this encounter or not.

            “Crowley,” he answered, returning the final book to the shelf. “Well, Anthony Crowley, but no one calls be by my first name.”

            “Professor Crowley,” the man repeated. Without his approval, part of his mind decided he liked the way it sounded when he said it. “History teacher, I assume?”

            “Ancient history,” Crowley started down the stairs. The angel was staring again. His gaze unnerved Crowley, despite having no maliciousness to it. The angel had a peculiar look in his eyes. “I’ll best be off then! Lovely meeting you, sorry to keep you late, you’re too kind!”

            Crowley flinched at the stilted tone in his voice, but walked on. He was out the door before the angel could get a word in edgewise.

 

 -----

 

            When Aziraphale inspected the shelves Crowley had fixed, he was surprised to find everything was in order. That was, except for the wine glass sitting on the table adjacent to it.

            How the _hell_ did Crowley get in here?


	4. Crowley Returns, Briefly

       It had been a week since Crowley had set foot in the library. It was almost time for the holiday break.

 

       He would have to go back. Books were due before school let out for the season, including the one Crowley had snagged before his – as he fancied it – _daring escape_ from the lion’s den. Regardless of the actual danger of the situation, the perceived danger had thus far prevented him from returning.

 

       Despite considering himself a very suave demon, even he could tell that there was no delicate way to approach the situation. What was he supposed to say? “Hey, I’m the person who broke into your bookstore last week and every day prior, I would like to return this book I practically stole.”

 

       That was, of course, accentuated by the confusing details.

 

       From his place in the empty lecture, sprawled out across his leather desk-chair, he almost considered it funny. Maybe Hastur had set him up on a wild goose chase? Maybe it was the setup to a bad joke? “An angel-who-is-not-really-an-angel, a demon, and a stolen book walk into a bar.”

 

       Maybe he had the wrong library? Crowley cringed at the thought. Of course, there was only one library on campus, so any blame would have to fall on Hastur for the mistake. Regardless, blame was rarely placed delicately in hell, nor with such care to prevent Crowley from being punished.

 

       He had been lounging for an hour, running through thoughts and scenarios. He realized he was stalling. That’s all he had been doing for days. Time was running out, he figured, and there was no time like the present.

 

\-----

 

       It was strange seeing the bookshop in the daylight. Students milled around the streets outside, some talking amongst themselves, others walking quickly and with purpose. Crowley had to stop himself from teleporting inside out of habit, instead reaching for the door.

 

       The chandelier was alight, brightening the usually dark library with a warm glow. Crowley immediately relaxed, the familiar surroundings comforting him. Crowley’s moment of peace was shaken when someone called his name.

 

       “Crowley!” Aziraphale called from behind the front desk. The warm lights softened his features, illuminating his white-blonde hair like a halo. What he lacked in angelic energy before was made up for by a more attainable sort of softness, a very human sort of beauty. What surprised Crowley the most was that Aziraphale was smiling at him, beckoning him to come over with a wave of his hand.

 

       Of course, any admiration of the man’s form was purely subconscious – or at least, that’s what Crowley told himself as he put on his best saunter, moving towards the front desk. Aziraphale’s eyes were bright as he grinned up at his red-haired companion.

 

       “I was wondering if you’d ever come back,” he said with an easy smile. Of all the things Crowley was expecting from this encounter, this was not it.

 

       “I figured I should return this book,” he waved the borrowed copy up from its place by his side. “That is the rule, after all. I really should get better at following rules.”

 

       “I suppose this is a valiant effort,” Aziraphale chuckled. “Was it helpful for your class?”

 

       Small talk. The demon felt his skin crawling as the conversation drew on. Though, he found he could not pull away from it. The way Aziraphale smiled up at him with every word he said was terribly endearing in a very human way. He almost forgot that the being in front of him was a possible angel. Though, with a smile like that, it was impossible that he was anything but.


	5. Angels Among Us

            Crowley was devoting much too much of his time to thinking about Aziraphale.

 

      The wake-up call, as it were, came when he stalked the streets of the campus. He had walked the length of the University twice over before he realized that not only had he not tempted anyone; he had spent the entire time contemplating the enigma that has been haunting him for the past two weeks.

 

      Now, Crowley was all for being prepared. Planning and over-planning was practically his specialty when needed. But the concern stemmed not from planning. The fact he refused to accept was that he had, indeed, not been planning. He couldn’t get the Angel’s face out of his head. He analyzed and over-analyzed their previous interactions, paying special attention to the man’s mannerisms, expressions, and general being.

 

      In other words, this human (?) had managed to wedge himself into the demon’s mind like a doorstop. A very stubborn doorstop. The doorstop keeping open the gates of hell. Worse than all of the doorstops that had come before.

 

      In fewer words still, Crowley was damned – somehow worse than the first time.

 

      Currently, he was lurking outside the library. He hadn’t intended to lurk, particularly here, but the world works in mysterious ways and this is where his feet brought him.

 

      He must have intended to go inside. The library was open, though the closing time was rapidly approaching. Crowley could lurk all evening and into the night if necessary, though that was never his style. He considered himself a very brash, sort of in-your-face demon. Lurking was too subtle, whilst also somehow too squirming-at-your-feet-ish. Demons like Hastur enjoyed lurking. That is an association Crowley would not appreciate, feeling himself above that sort of thing.

 

      But he continued lurking for a few minutes more regardless. He was itching to do something beyond looking through windows and making wide circles around the block. He busied himself with tempting one of the more promising students towards buying weed in a back alley. They didn’t call it the Devil’s Lettuce for nothing.

 

      Not that normal lettuce is particularly angelic – but that’s beside the point.

 

      He was antsy. Demons aren’t supposed to be antsy. You don’t see Hastur getting all jittery while scoping out his surroundings, planning some temptation against a particularly devout saint. No, only Crowley was antsy. What kind of demon that made him, he didn’t know.

 

      The sun was already half set, casting the ancient classrooms and bell towers in golden light. He was running out of time – if it wasn’t already too late. The library was on a loose schedule at best.

 

      With a sharp exhale, Crowley put on his best cool, confident expression and walked – or rather, vaguely sauntered – into the library. He had barely made it past the doorway before he was swamped by a wave of angelic energy, nearly knocking him from his feet.

 

      With three quick steps back, he was out the doorway he had entered less than a second before, back pressed against the wood, chest heaving in fear. His sunglasses sat low on his nose, but he couldn’t bring himself to care as he focused on getting a hold on his thoughts.

 

 _Holy shit_. If he had known that angelic energy would be this impossible to miss, he wouldn’t have spent so long looking for it. He felt like he had just been pressed face-first within four inches of a bonfire. A bonfire with an angelic choir attached to it. His lungs felt scorched in a way they hadn’t felt since his fall, when the fire swarmed into his stomach and through his veins, enveloping his very being in a way not-so unlike love.

 

      He felt far removed from his surrounding, only able to feel his scorched skin like it was a signpost covering his whole field of vision: “You are not loved like we are.”

 

      “You are not us.”

 

      “God has abandoned you.”

 

      “You are other.”

 

      His head swarmed with the words crackled by flames circling his ears, and like Beelzebub, flies circled his head like the fresh corpse he was, new wounds 6000 years fresh.

 

      When he caught his breath, he looked down to see his body unscathed. His hair was unsinged, and the aura had left his body without a trace. He was left with only his demonic form and his memory.

 

      His memory added one more truth to the angelic list: “God does not love you.”

 

 -----

 

      He gathered up enough courage to look through the library windows, moving from his place in the doorway further down the pavement. His hand shook from their place at his side, fingers tingling from residual energy.

 

      Aziraphale didn’t feel like that. Crowley shed himself of any doubt in his mind; that librarian had no sort of holiness anywhere within him – at least not beyond the human sort. Crowley glanced through the window with mock casualness, seeing Aziraphale standing in the middle of the moderately crowded entryway, talking to a suit-clad figure facing away from the window.

 

      Aziraphale seemed not to have noticed Crowley’s dramatic entrance, which was a blessing in itself. That would have been difficult to explain. The other man seemed to be glancing around suspiciously, smelling the air of all things. Crowley, with his better than average hearing, could hear bits and pieces of conversation from beyond the stone walls.

 

      “It was truly nice of you to stop by-” Aziraphale said to the man, fondness coating his words. “It has been so long. Too long, if I have anything to say about it.”

 

      Crowley felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. Who the heavens did this guy think he was? He pressed his ear closer to the wall, straining his ears.

 

      “Your opinion matters, particularly when I agree with you,” The man laughs. The conversation sounds easy, not stilted like Crowley’s own interactions with the man. “I’ll stop buy next week, perhaps. You know how the journey here is. The soonest I can get here is when you’ll see me.”

 

      Crowley should _really_ try harder. He looked through the window for a moment to see Aziraphale smile at the comment. Crowley catches himself thinking how cute that smile looks, despite that unknown bastard that caused it. If it’s quality time Aziraphale wants, then Satan damn it, he’s getting it!

 

      “Of course. I look forward to it already, Gabriel.”

 

      Crowley’s blood ran cold. He hears the library’s bell ring as Aziraphale escorts him out of the building, burning Crowley’s skin even at this distance. He doesn’t dare look at the angel, who walks the opposite direction away from the library.

 

      When Aziraphale goes back indoors, Gabriel gets an appropriate distance away before sprouting wings and flying upwards into the heavens.

 

      Crowley shakes, eyes wide as he realizes that he’s just decided to compete against the Archangel _Fucking_ Gabriel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long since the last update! I got caught up in some things, but chapters should be more regular-ish from now on.


	6. Let's Have Lunch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley picks up the pace and steps up his game.

 

            The next day, Crowley arrived at the library. The streets were mostly empty, students taking their finals in all classes but Crowley’s own. He was on his lunch break. In his hand he held an empty picnic basket.

 

            His plan, which he considered rather brilliant, was to arrive at the bookshop with a flourish. Once there, he would present the basket which would spontaneously fill with whatever food Aziraphale liked best. If Aziraphale was already eating lunch, the basket would fill with books taken from a competing book shop down the street, which he would donate to the library out of good will.

 

            Once there, Crowley would woo the angel with all his demon prowess. He hadn’t planned the specifics just yet, but he figured that Aziraphale would be too busy making eyes at Crowley to notice any awkwardness. Gabriel wouldn’t arrive for another week at least, meaning Crowley would have plenty of time to get ahead.

 

            Crowley, when he wasn’t lazing around, could be very competitive – if only for the prize at stake.

 

            Crowley realized that he should probably report back to Hastur. Hastur be damned, Crowley figured that the more time he could get away with doing nothing the better. Of course, in a way, he was thwarting heavenly missions by preventing a certain archangel from pursuing this very specific librarian.

 

            A logical part of Crowley’s brain wondered if the angel even _was_ pursuing Aziraphale. In friendship, certainly. Crowley told himself that this was the manner that Crowley was intending as well, but the reality of his intentions was slowly creeping up on him.

 

            He’s thwarting, of course. That’s the entire reason. Tempting a human, thwarting an angel, end of story. Doing his demonic duty with the same dramatic and creative flourish as always, just to spite all the higher powers.

 

            A demonic duty that involves… reading books. And bringing picnic baskets. And enjoying pleasant company. Truly demonic, if you asked him.

 

            Back to the present, Crowley was just about saunter through the heavy wooden doors of the library. Sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose stylishly, hair pushed slightly behind his ears, actual tie accompanying his collared shirt and jacket, Crowley was dressed to impressed. The doors fly open with a push of his hand, followed by a gust of cold wind.

 

            Aziraphale was chatting with another teacher from behind the desk when his head jerked up with surprise at the sudden noise. His eyes soften when he sees Crowley enter, eyes moving from his face, to his picnic basket, then back to his face again. His mouth drops open slightly, eyes infinitely fond.

 

            “Aziraphale!” Crowley calls across the library, his voice light. “How would you feel about lunch?”

 

            If Crowley didn’t know better, he would say that Aziraphale looked scandalized. But behind that affronted look laid eyes softer than the clouds above.

 

            “Crowley, you’ve let in a draft,” he said, slight smile to his tone. The other teacher, a man from the English Department, looked back and forth between the two men with poorly disguised confusion. He looked about to say something before Crowley continued.

 

            “Doesn’t matter, we’re going outside anyways.”

 

            “Doesn’t seem you’re giving me much choice on the matter,” Aziraphale said, fully smiling now.

 

            “It isn’t as if you’d say no,” Crowley paused dramatically. “Once you see what I’ve got in here.”

 

            Aziraphale _gasps_ when Crowley opens up the basket. His eyes go wide to take in the variety of crepes filling the space, empty only where two bottles of wine lay sideways inside the container. Crowley looked infinity pleased behind his sunglasses, though he hopes he isn’t being too obvious. He is, but Aziraphale’s beaming smile overtakes any mild expression on Crowley’s face.

 

            Crowley swears that Aziraphale smiles with every fiber of his being, not just his lips. Not just his face either: his feet bounce out of sheer overflowing joy, his fingers doing mini jazz-hands at his sides. Crowley discretely takes him in from behind his darkened lenses, feeling the man’s joy radiating into him like the sun into a lake.

 

            Crowley felt like he sat at the edge of a beach, little waves of happiness lapping at his feet. He could only imagine how the ocean itself felt.

 

            “Oh, _goodness_ ,” he finally says, the word itself somehow _also smiling_. “Crowley, you’ve truly outdone yourself.”

 

            “Have I? I wouldn’t know,” he said.

 

            “Don’t let it go to your head, lest you’d never come back to Earth,” Aziraphale huffs. “But yes. You really have done well. _Beyond_ well, really.”

 

            “Is that a yes, then?”

 

            Aziraphale looks genuinely scandalized now.

 

            “Of course, it’s a yes! What are you, daft?”

 

 

\-----

 

 

            They arrived in the University park less than ten minutes later, jackets piled on their shoulders, scarves wrapped tight around their necks. The air condenses into steam as it exits their mouths, which Crowley mimes as being smoke in a comedic effort. He finds himself attempting to be more comedic, and generally easier to be around as he converses. To be tempting, of course. Though whether or not that intention is demonic is up for debate, even inside Crowley’s own head. He’s being classy, at least. Grand gestures and general coddling.

 

            He is enjoying himself. That doesn’t surprise him, but it is a new development. It had been a while since he had partaken in genuine, easy fun. Not for lack of trying, of course. It’s easy for demons to do fun things – the seven deadly sins for instance – but their situation is a punishment. And besides, it’s the humans that usually act out the sins; demons are basically just the glorified salesmen.

 

            “This is quite beautiful, without any students around,” Aziraphale said, his nose turning pink in the cold. “I’m almost glad you nearly knocked in my door.”

 

            “Almost? I think I’m doing better than almost,” Crowley laughed. They’re walking easily side by side, on their way to a picnic spot handpicked by Crowley himself. There is a light dusting of snow on the ground, creating an iridescent sheen across the usually green foliage underfoot. When they arrive, Crowley rolls out a picnic blanket with a flourish.

 

            “You’re too kind, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, sitting down on the tartan blanket. It was all he could do not to protest the statement, instead opting to increase the temperature around them a few degrees.

           

            Crowley takes a moment to look at the view. You may think that he means the frozen lake in front of him, but no. His eyes were stuck on Aziraphale like a lower demon stuck to a pitchfork. But more pleasant and less burning. So, in essence, nothing like a demon stuck to a pitchfork.

 

            Nonetheless, Crowley raked his eyes over the other man’s form – not without shame, but not with scarcity, either.

 

            To distract himself, he opens up a bottle of wine – evidently, Aziraphale’s favorite, though Crowley didn’t look at the label long enough to know what kind it was. Something French and fancy.

 

            He tempted the man with a spot of gluttony – or at least that is what he told himself. His eyes drank in a feast of their own, making him feel like the most sinful among them. Aziraphale had an easy smile on his face, giddy and innocent – a stark difference from Crowley’s own mind.

 

           The smile shifted into something even more blissful when a forkful of crepe hit Aziraphale’s tongue, the sound radiating from his throat sounding like something of a moan. The crepes were positively sinful, so much so it almost seemed divine. Funny how that reflected on their situation… this would be a pleasant evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm in Alaska and wrote this on a 12 hour train ride to distract myself from the fires and smoke... sorry if it seems rushed or unfinished! I only have WiFi for a short time and I wanted to get a chapter out.


	7. An Unexpected Collision

 

            December was well upon them. Crowley was in the middle of his final class before the students would return home for the winter holiday, and he could feel the relief radiating off of everyone in the room. Or at least, the anticipation of relief. Many of the students stared with confused gazes at their final exam, wracking their brains for answers they could not find.

 

            Crowley was bored. Sure, the stress and anger radiating off from those behind the desks appealed to his demonic senses, but that didn’t stop his own nagging sense from telling him that there were better things he could be doing this afternoon.

 

            His fingers tapped rhythmically on his knee as he looked blankly at the furrowed brows across from him. He was imagining all the alternate universes where he wasn’t here right now. He could be on a beach somewhere, summoning sharks. Or maybe in America – oh yes, America was in a spot of trouble right now – perfect for a little demonic intervention. Or maybe Australia. He had never been to Australia.

 

            He looked down at his watch. Ten minutes to go. You would think that after six thousand years, ten minutes would be nothing – but like all classrooms, time moved slower here. Especially after Crowley enchanted it to be even more miserably slow, sparking evil in the minds of his students.

 

            It was just like the M25 all over again. Being hurt by his own miracles, as always.

 

            Maybe he would go to Brazil. He would cause some trouble with Football, make them lose a game, start some barfights.

 

            Maybe he would go up north. There wasn’t a whole lot to do, but he’d find something. Anything was better than this. Having a meeting with _Hastur_ would be better than this.

 

            Five minutes. His students looked even more stressed now, feeling the pressure grow.

 

            Maybe he would stay local. Maybe he would have dinner – though a dinner alone was never any fun. He _could_ invite Aziraphale. That thought in particular had been dancing around his head all afternoon. Every thought of his had; Brazil with Aziraphale, America with Aziraphale. The beach thought with Aziraphale had been particularly pleasant…

 

            Crowley sighed just a bit too loudly, grabbing the attention of some of his students. He averted his eyes quickly.

 

            He was a ghost in his own head. Everything always went back to that angel-who-really-isn’t-an-angel-screw-you-Hastur.

 

            He was in the middle of imagining Australia with Aziraphale. Crowley was holding a newly-demonic Koala while his companion was riding a rambunctious kangaroo when the bell rang loudly to dismiss the period, snapping him from his thoughts.

 

            Students handed him their tests as they exited the room, all smiles and exhaustion. Once the room emptied, he lingered for a moment. Crowley wasn’t home free yet – teachers had to stay another few days for staff meetings and to grade tests – but even so he felt relieved. He wouldn’t have to see those students again, the bastards.

 

            He took a sharp inhale before exiting the lecture, turning the corner straight into Aziraphale. Crowley stumbled backwards, barley having time to steady himself before he was met by a wave of apologies.

 

            “Oh goodness!” Aziraphale exclaimed, already turning pink. “Crowley, are you alright dear? I’m dreadfully sorry, I really should watch where I’m going. Nearly knocked you to the ground.”

 

            Crowley didn’t answer, his mind completely distracted by Aziraphale’s hand, having just caught him by his waist to prevent him from falling. His skin was warm, resting on Crowley’s sharp hipbone, lessening after a moment from its initial steadying grip. Crowley was entirely focused on their proximity, looking Aziraphale directly in the eyes from behind his sunglasses. They were close. Crowley barely fell back after the collision, still _nearly_ pressed up against his companion.

 

            Aziraphale looked confused at Crowley’s deer-in-the-headlights reaction before realizing suddenly what the problem was, eyes widening and skin turning even pinker as he moved his hand away sharply. The movement brought Crowley back to the present, where he subconsciously missed the soft warmth.

 

            He blinked the thought away, “I’m alright – and stop apologizing.” Crowley chuckled. Aziraphale looked adorable flustered.

 

            It was only then that he realized Aziraphale was holding a small package in his unoccupied hand.

 

            “What have you got there?” Crowley asked, teasing smile appearing on his face. Aziraphale looked confused for a moment before remembering. He brought the hand that had caught Crowley up to the back of his neck awkwardly, smiling.

 

            “Well, it’s the reason why I was hovering outside your doorway,” he answered with a frankly adorable laugh. Crowley’s curiosity grew during the brief pause that followed. “I- I figured that I owe you one for lunch the other day.”

 

            Aziraphale handed over the package, averting his gaze. Crowley’s smile grew, heart singing in his chest as he took the parcel, opening the well-wrapped exterior carefully. Aziraphale watched him discretely from behind his eyelashes, gauging his reaction.

 

            Inside was a new edition of the Ancient History book he had borrowed (or rather, stole briefly with the intention of returning), along with a brief letter, reading:

 

 

            Crowley,

 

            I have reserved a table at a respectable restaurant nearby for this afternoon. It’s nothing too fancy, but you probably will not see many students there. That is, assuming you say yes to this proposition. Would you join me for dinner?

 

            Your possible date,

                        Aziraphale.

 

 

 

            Crowley’s mouth fell open, heart beating fiercely in his chest.

 

            _Aziraphale was making a move_. This was far too good to be true, Crowley read the letter again in disbelief, smile again breaking through his features.

 

            _He_ was being asked on a _date_. An official date, this time. Aziraphale was asking him. On a date. This thought repeated in his mind countless times, each with different wordings and inflections. After the fifteenth time, he finally began to believe it.

 

            He looked up only to be met with Aziraphale’s beyond nervous expression. Crowley realized he had taken far too long to respond, making Aziraphale sit in tense silence.

 

            “Yes, yes, of course Aziraphale!” he said much too loudly, desperate to get the words out. He flinched before answering again. “Of course, I’ll join you for dinner Aziraphale.”

 

            A smile appeared on Aziraphale’s face that could put galaxies to shame. His eyes sparkled – who the hell has eyes that sparkle outside of cartoons? Aziraphale does, blue eyes alight with pure joy and relief shining upon his features. Crowley’s heart melted for the third time this week, all because of this impossible being that had somehow just asked Crowley on a date. How in Heaven’s name did he get so lucky?

 

            He might need to thank Hastur the next time he sees him.

 

            “And I love the book, thank you,” Crowley added. “I don’t suppose you’ll be my chauffeur?”


	8. The Bentley Appears

             Aziraphale, as it turned out, was not in possession of a vehicle of any sort. In fact, he only seemed to realize this fact when Crowley mentioned the whole chauffeur business.

 

            “How do you not have a car, let alone not _know_ you don’t have a car?” Crowley asked, amused by Aziraphale’s flustered state. “I mean, you must have been _aware_ of it?”

 

            “It’s not like I leave the campus often, dear. I suppose I’ve just never needed one,” he said, looking confused, almost dazed behind his eyes. He laughed awkwardly, continuing, “I mostly never have a reason to leave. I mean, the campus shops are always open. There are decent restaurants – and all of the books I could ever read are in the library with me.”

 

            He was rambling, almost as if trying to explain the situation to himself. Crowley was beginning to feel Aziraphale’s radiating concern, so much so he nearly missed Aziraphale calling him “dear.”

 

            “It’s alright, I’ve got a car. Plenty of room for the both of us,” Crowley soothed, walking outside and gesturing Aziraphale to follow. “You’ll just have to give directions.”

 

            Aziraphale stood still a moment longer before the concern left him. He followed with a sigh, smiling up at his companion. Go- Sat- Somebody, Crowley was on a _date_. An official, quiet, somewhat-according-to-plan _date_. A date with the most adorable human he had seen so far. Of course, adorable would be selling him short.

 

            Aziraphale looked with wide eyes as Crowley walked up to the Bentley, opening the passenger’s side door (ever the gentleman). Aziraphale’s eyebrows shot up towards his hairline.

 

            “I can’t claim to know much about cars, but this is _yours_?” Crowley nodded proudly. “My, Crowley, she’s gorgeous! And on a teacher’s salary, no less. How on Earth did you find her?” He said, moving to sit down.

 

            “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Crowley responded, causing Aziraphale to shoot him a look.

 

            “What, are there any unsavory business practices I should – or shouldn’t – know about?” Aziraphale scoffed. Crowley walked around to the driver’s side, sitting down with demonic flourish.

 

            “Nothing too devious,” Crowley decided on saying, playing it off as a joke. Of course, it was a true statement. He had bought it new – and he had _bought_ it, regardless of whether the money used was of demonic origin or not. The car salesman got his paycheck; end of story, as far as Crowley was concerned.

           

            Aziraphale chuckled, and the Bentley pulled off onto the University street. Crowley made a point to drive carefully, not miracle any obvious vehicles out of the way – or pedestrians, for that matter. It was altogether a pleasant drive off campus and into the parking lot of a family-operated French Restaurant.

 

            The restaurant itself was, as Aziraphale said; respectable but not too fancy. Thankfully, Crowley was already appropriately dressed from work – a black button-up shirt, dark slate grey slacks, topped off with a comfortably warm jacket. Aziraphale was equally dashing in a caramel-colored turtleneck, beige pants, and an adorably puffy jacket.

 

            They were seated almost immediately at a wooden table adorned with an unassuming crystal vase, holding an unafraid pink rose. Surprisingly, Crowley was unbothered by the plant’s brashness. He couldn’t find it within himself to be bothered on such an occasion, even when the rose’s attitude called out for unearned adoration.

 

            Aziraphale sat across from him, beaming as if Crowley had done something terribly endearing (which he hadn’t, Aziraphale just considered Crowley endearing on principal). Crowley very suddenly felt that this interaction had happened before, Déjà vu washing over him. Aziraphale seemed, all the sudden, unbearably familiar. From before these past three months, of course.

 

            Aziraphale noticed this shift in Crowley immediately, concern lacing his tone. “Are you all right, Crowley?”

 

            The feeling receded as soon as it appeared, Crowley shaking the thought out of his head.

 

            “I’m all right, just,” Crowley paused. “It’s nothing, really.”

 

            Aziraphale looked unsatisfied with this answer, but didn’t press the issue, opting instead to browse the menu. A waiter appeared, took their order, then was gone again without much hassle. Aziraphale asked about his classes, his plans for the winter holiday, and whatever else came up. Conversation was easy, if a little surface level.

 

            “What about you?” Crowley asked, to Aziraphale’s confusion. The wine was already hitting Crowley’s ability to express ideas out loud, it seemed. “What are you doing for the holiday?”

 

            “Not much, I’m afraid. Rearranging the library, most likely,” Aziraphale sighed.

 

            “What, haven’t you got family to see? Friends to visit?” Aziraphale shook his head, face sad behind an unenthusiastic smile.

 

            “I suppose Gabriel might stop by, but otherwise the only solid plan is the staff Christmas party.”

 

            Crowley’s heart dropped. Not about the Gabriel thing, he could deal with that later. The was suddenly struck with a huge issue: he had entirely forgotten about the Christmas party. The _required attendance_ staff party.

 

            “The staff party!” Crowley yelped, slightly too loudly, attracting the attention of some of their fellow patrons. He lowered his voice and looked back to Aziraphale, “I forgot that was a thing.”

 

            Aziraphale chuckled. “Well, it is a thing. I heard they’ll have wine.”

 

            “Damn their wine,” Crowley bit out, causing Aziraphale to laugh heartily.

 

            “I doubt it will be that bad,” Aziraphale said after his laughing calmed down. “A pleasant evening with gift exchanges, English department gossip, cheap wine – and, if it’s any consolation, I’ll be there.”

 

            Crowley visibly brightened at that last point, but that still didn’t calm his nerves entirely.

 

            “When did they draw names for the gift exchange?” Crowley asked.

 

            “I believe it started at the end of November. At the Business Department building, of all places. I think it’s still open, if you’d forgotten.” Aziraphale said.

 

            Crowley nodded, slightly relieved. He still had a chance. “Anyways. You don’t have anything to do over the break.”

 

            Crowley, of course, had little to do over the break either. He was planning to do a few temptations, dampen some people’s holiday spirits, sing some annoyingly off-pitch carols – the whole shebang. As a demon, he didn’t have family he could sit at a dinner table with, arguing politics, eating ham and copious amounts of desserts. But, for him, that was normal.

 

            But a _human_ with nobody to spend Christmas with? That was sad.

 

            Aziraphale looked slightly disheartened at the return of this topic. “As I said.”

 

            “I think there’s something I can do about that.”

 

 

 -----

 

 

            The food was delivered some time later, and the desert after that. They laughed often, ate much, and ended the evening satisfied. Aziraphale paid the bill, despite Crowley’s protests. Aziraphale insisted; he was the one who asked Crowley on the date, after all.

 

            They walked back out to the Bentley and began the pleasant drive to drop Aziraphale at his house back on campus. Half way through the journey, a question emerges in Crowley’s mind.

 

            “If you don’t have a car, how had you gone to the restaurant before?” Crowley asked, voice light.

 

            “A friend, the one I mentioned earlier, brought me,” Aziraphale answered. “Gabriel.”

 

            Crowley didn’t _want_ to feel jealous, being brought to a restaurant already christened by other occult competition. In an effort to best the angel, he had only followed in his footsteps.

 

            Gabriel beat him here, too.

 

            “ _Gabriel_ has good taste,” he decides on saying. No need to be outwardly antagonistic, after all. It really was no big deal.

 

            Aziraphale picks up on his mood and drops the subject. When they arrive at Aziraphale’s home, they both get out of the car. Crowley leans into the side of the Bentley, allowing Aziraphale a moment to bid him goodbye.

 

            “This really was a pleasant evening, Crowley,” Aziraphale smiled. It was a small smile, but a bright one. Someone damn it, those smiles would be the death of him.

 

            “Thank you for inviting me,” Crowley winked – though Aziraphale couldn’t tell, sunglasses and all that. “About the Christmas party; should we go together?”

 

            Aziraphale grinned, eyes turning giddy immediately. “If you’d like to. The result would be the same, but going… together would definitely be nice.”

 

            “It’s a date, then.” Crowley said with a laugh.

 

             At that, Aziraphale pulls him into a hug. Crowley hugs back after a moment, feeling stronger than heaven above.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any typos in this chapter -- or any chapter, for that matter -- are because I am always tired when I write. 
> 
> Whoops.


	9. Demonic Gift Exchange Shopping

       As it turned out, the Business Department building was conveniently at the center of the campus. The old, imposing façade of the building towered over the neighboring dorms, tall spires nearly touching the sky. It was impossible to miss to the human eye, but Crowley could feel it from miles off; it radiated so much sin Crowley was nearly swamped with it.

 

       Tax fraud, embezzlement, nasty scandals with secretaries; this building had it all.

 

       It was almost funny that he was here for a Christmas gift-exchange, of all things. He made a mental note to do some tempting here at some point – not that the humans even needed his help, at this point.

 

       He sauntered in through one of the ornate wooden doors, and made his way to what he assumed was the help desk. A woman in her mid-fifties looked up at him through thin wire lenses disapprovingly. She looked more bookish than even Aziraphale (not that he would ever say that out loud; Aziraphale was proud of his title as “Most Unbearably Bookish Staff Member”).

 

       “I’m looking for the gift exchange… drawing… thing,” Crowley stated eloquently. The woman scowled, looking through her papers.

 

       “So, it’s you that’s been holding up the planning,” the woman accused, scowling harder as she handed him a thin piece of paper. “everyone else has got theirs already. The staff’s been worried somebody would be without a gift.”

 

       Crowley nodded in thanks before turning to leave, slightly smug smile on his face. Causing trouble without even trying! – damn, he was good. Well, bad. Whatever.

 

       He was out the door before he got the paper unfolded, holding it up in the thin daylight. In plain writing, it read; “Mr. Aziraphale, Librarian.” Followed by smaller print, “Degree in Library Sciences, Enjoys Old Books and Good Food. Self-Proclaimed Connoisseur of Wine.”

 

       Crowley stopped dead in his tracks. A business student cursed at him, stepping around Crowley before shoulder-checking him as he walked past. Crowley didn’t care, too busy rereading the short description.

 

       He was fucked. In his mind, he cursed the universe for trying so dreadfully hard to force Aziraphale into his life – not that the proximity wasn’t appreciated, but did it have to be such a try-hard? Wasn’t condemning Crowley as a demon enough? Wasn’t stationing him on Earth enough? Wasn’t assigning him as a bloody _teacher_ enough? He cursed God – and Hastur – for this whole mess.

 

       Crowley was a comet and Aziraphale is the star that he was coaxed to dance around. He was minding his own business and bam! – he was caught in the gravity of this _human_ who keeps appearing where he least expects it. Like God herself knocked him off his path like a billiard ball, right into the arms of Aziraphale.

 

       There was no choice but to go shopping. With a huff, he finally moved from his place rooted on the concrete to make his way to the Bentley. _Shopping_. Not just shopping, _Christmas_ Shopping. Celebrating the birth of the son of God. Sure, he knew the guy – cool dude, played the lute before it was cool – but the spirit of the holiday just wasn’t for him.

 

       Well, the commercialism of the holiday _was_ his idea… he supposed that this whole situation was his own fault, in some convoluted way. And office Christmas parties… all the bad parts of Christmas were all him.

 

       He reconciled himself on the drive to an unbearably festive shopping mall, that perhaps he wasn’t celebrating Christmas and getting a meaningful gift for someone he cares about: he was furthering materialism’s grip on society by providing unsuspecting mortals with societally-required gifts. Yes, that’s it. Very evil.

 

       Truly the work of a demonic mastermind.

 

       Then he began to ponder the best way to further consumerism in his fellow party-goer. Red wine or white? Food was a no-go, with being perishable and all that. Books, then? He owned so many books, how would Crowley know what to get him?

 

       Sure, he’d looked through the entire library – multiple times, he might add – but Aziraphale might’ve gotten new books over the past month. Who is to say that the copy of _The Grapes of Wrath_ that was noticeably lacking before hadn’t already miraculously appeared on his shelves?

 

       Crowley felt like putting his head through the wall. Why did this have to be so difficult? A song prominently featuring sleigh bells played from speakers somewhere overhead, seemingly mocking Crowley’s distress. Goddamn seasonal cheer.

 

       Aziraphale’s style was too specific for Crowley to purchase something for him, so clothes were out the window. There was nothing on this Earth Crowley could give Aziraphale that he didn’t already own –

 

       Then suddenly it hit him. There were books salvaged from Alexandria that humans had never even heard of.

 

       But Crowley had saved them. Of course, they were precious to the demon; the last remnants of a place he had loved – but surely, he could part with one copy. Especially since he had copied them onto more stable material years ago.

 

       He would still have the stories. Just the bound paper itself would be gone.

 

       He considered this a right brilliant idea.

 

\-----

 

 

       Facing his bookshelf, he thumbed through one of his least favorite stories saved from Alexandria. It was in miraculously good condition, though still worn with thousands of years of wear and tear. Aziraphale would live this.

 

       With care, he wrapped the novel with linen before placing it into a cardboard box lined with wrapping paper. The design was a white, minimalistic snowflake pattern – nothing too colorful or Christ-related. It was perfect, labeled with a dainty, “To: Mr. Aziraphale.”

 

       He was debating about including a “From: ____” signature when his phone rang, nearly shocking him out of his skin (which was possible, considering his snake heritage). He picked it up from his desk, answering with, “Professor A. Crowley, who’s calling?”

 

       “It’s Aziraphale dear, I was wondering what time you’ll be picking me up for the party on Saturday?”

 

       That was two days away.

 

       “Oh, I don’t know. Around six o’clock, maybe?” Crowley answered in a questioning tone. “They want us there by six, there’s no need to be early.”

 

       A pause over the line.

 

       “That sounds perfectly alright, dear. Fashionably late.”

 

       “Being there ten minutes after the allotted time isn’t _late_ , Angel,” Crowley laughed, mind completely unaware of the pet name. “I’ll see you then. I went shopping for the exchange-gift today, the person will _love_ it.”

 

       Aziraphale made a noncommittal “Hmph,” over the phone, mind reeling from the usage of the word “angel.”

 

       Crowley didn’t notice, and bid goodbye none the wiser.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Updates every few days, give or take


End file.
